My Third Son
by EstelWolfe
Summary: Elrond ponders on what his third son has come to mean and is coming to be. This is a one-shot fic, and my first attempt at writing anything in the Tolkein universe. Constructive criticism is appreciated, but please be kind.


Disclaimer:  I don't own any of them, though I really, really, really would love to own Aragorn, he was my favorite character in the books, and since seeing the movie adaptations having Legolas wouldn't be too bad, you know . . .

AN:  Okay, this is really different from anything else I've written.  It's one-shot, and it's not from one of my favorite characters points of view.  It's also the first time I've ever tried my hand at Tolkein, mainly because I'm in complete and total awe of his creative ability and don't really want to change anything that might cause lightning to strike me down, as I haven't completely sorted out all his mythology yet.  Okay, basically, just don't shoot me.  I really want to write a real LotR's fic, but so far the only one I have would be sort of an AU and it wouldn't make a very good one at that, at least in my opinion, so I'm doing minor character study.  Shutting up and writing now.

**My Third Son**

By the Valar, how insane this whole world is.  An elf, an firstborn Child of Iluvatar, raising a mortal as his son.  I should have known that something would go wrong before I ever took on the child.

If not for the fact that he was Numenorean, I don't think he would have managed at Rivendell.  He's not competitive by nature, not like some mortal children . . .like some elven children . . .but to always lose, to always be slower, easier to catch, fainter of hearing, dimmer of sight . . .it was hard for the man to grow under such conditions.

Grow he did, though, and quickly, in what seemed to be the blink of an eye, from child to young adult to full-grown Man, and a good man at that.  I could almost believe, as my daughter does, that given a choice, he would cast away the ring.

Yet I also knew Isildur, knew all the great line of kings, and I know what also runs in his veins.  It shows even now, though none would dare to tell him such.  He hid among the Rohirrim, among the Southrons, finally among the Dunedan, though of course it could not be called hiding, but learning, learning to read men, learning to lead them . . .

He does not want to lead.  I know that my fear, my distrust of his Numenorean blood is mainly to blame for this, but I cannot help it.  One man, in one moment of weakness, betrayed the world, and in another, bound all the line of kings to his fate.

The fate of the Ring will be tied to those who follow in the line of Isildur, for he will risk no hurt to it.

So very pitiful, considering the Ring did not care to help save Isildur from hurt.

I did not mean to let this Man into my heart.  Into my house, yes, into my confidence, yes, but not into my family, not so very deeply into the heart of Rivendell.  My sons will die for him.  They have said and shown as much more times than I would care to remember.

My daughter . . .my daughter would forsake her immortality for him, would bear him his heir and stay by him 'til the day that he decides to lie down and die.  Few men of Numenor have had that choice of late.  I cannot truly say if he will.

Elrond Half-elven.  Gifted with the Sight, gifted with a ring of power . . .neither of which are helpful at the moment.  He is too undecided, too uncertain of himself and his destiny.  All it would take would be a moment, a second of hesitancy in battle, a moment of weakness as he gazes into the palantir, a stray doubt as he claims lordship over those on the Paths of the Dead . . .I can see his path, the many, many endings it can take, but I cannot be certain which one it will be.  He has yet to decide if he would truly be the king of Gondor that he is by blood.

He has suffered so much already in his relatively short life.  I know he will suffer more before his death, whatever form it takes.  I feel a chill at the thought of his death.  It is something that I have always known will happen, and still the thought of it can bring me pain.  I do not wish to lose my daughter to death's arms as well.  That darkness has already claimed too many friends, too many allies.  I have always known it will have my fourth child, but to surrender my only daughter as well?

I know that I have hurt him, deeply, several times.  Every time I go to him to ask him to leave her, to let her be, every time I remind him that he is mortal and we are not, every time I insist that she will only ever be his when he has claimed his rightful place in the world, and that even then I will be hard put to bless the union . . .

He did not ask to fall in love with her.  He did not ask her to return his love so strongly, though I know that his heart has yearned for it.  He did not ask for his blood to be the blood of kings, diluted though it might be.

For that reason, he would make a good king.  He does not wish for lordship over Men, for dominion for dominion's sake.  He would truly strive to help his people.  He is a magnificent fighter, as well trained as any elven warrior.  He is a brilliant tactician . . .a good commander.  He could bring hope to Gondor again.

Hope.  Estel.  I sometimes think that I should not have named him that, for it makes it far too simple for words to become two-edged.  His own mother has taught him that lesson.

_I gave hope to the world . . .I have kept none for myself._

That was cruelty, as sharp a cut as she could have given him without actually drawing a blade.  He has been a good son, as good a son as a man can be when he does not know who he is, and then does not truly wish to be what he is.

I myself am guilty of using his name against him, though usually it is with Arwen, my Evenstar.  She has lived so long, to only now become ensnared with a Man, a Man that would have been her brother instead of her lover if she had been here instead of in Lothlorien.  Perhaps if she had seen him as a child, clumsy and tearful, she would not have been so smitten with him.

Or perhaps not.  Even as a child, he had a charm about him.  He managed to work his way into my carefully guarded heart.

Oh, my son, my son, why has all this come to pass?  That a hobbit should carry the weight of the world upon his small shoulders, that a man who does not wish to be king should be forced to find a way to claim the mantle, that good men, men who would have made good allies for you, even good friends, should be driven to madness and death while all that you are capable of doing is watching . . .

Perhaps the world has always been mad.  Perhaps I am only now noticing.  For what right have I to beg my daughter to forget the Man, to ignore her love and instead leave for the Undying Lands, while I myself am just as guilty of acting on that love?  Would I truly lead an army of elves to their deaths on the battlefields of this world that we are slowly abandoning for another?  Would I truly ride to Gondor's aid if it were Denethor who needed my aid?  Would I take my sons, my people, Galadriel's people, Thranduil's people, and lead them to death in what is more than likely a fool's mission for another?

I do not know.  Even five thousand year's are not long enough to learn some things.

I will come to you at Gondor, if you still live, Estel, Hope for the world of Men.  I will aid you in saving this world, in saving the kingdom that you must one day claim as your own.

If you succeed, I will grant you that which you have sought.  You will Ellessar, and I will give you the greatest wedding gift that a father could grant his son.  I will give you Arwen, and I will give you my blessing, and when we part at last, my path leading to the Grey Havens, yours to death and the Halls, it will be in peace.

Be strong, my son.  Have faith in yourself, if not in blood; have faith in your goodness, if not in your lineage.  Have faith in Arwen's love, which is so strong it will truly transcend death, stealing her immortality.

Have hope, Estel.  Your world can still be saved.


End file.
